Injuries
by bookwormtsb
Summary: "Jesus, are you okay?" John felt his heart leap out of his chest as he noticed Sherlock's rumpled and bruised state. He'd seen people come into the surgery like that before, teenage girls with their make up smeared and clothes ripped, young kids, rape victims. (mentions of sexual abuse). Co-written with tumblr user: phoenixfeathersinupdrafts


_Please pick up some milk- JW_

_Why? – SH_

_It's gone off and I would like some tea- JW_

_I am busy. – SH_

_Doing what exactly? JW_

_I am attempting to solve a case. – SH_

_I thought we solved cases together…JW_

_I assumed you were working. You usually complain about me parting you from your patients. – SH_

_You know what Sherlock, if you actually paid any attention to anyone but yourself then you would have noticed that I've been at home all day cleaning up the mess from your last experiment JW_

_It was not a mess, John. It was a success, I think you'll find. - SH_

_It was a mess Sherlock and I'm always the one left clearing up after you JW_

_I did not ask you to. - SH_

_Yes but I need to if we don't want to die of some horrible illness JW_

_You are being melodramatic. - SH_

_Well you're being selfish JW_

_That is a rather characteristic trait of mine, John. - SH_

_It's not something to be celebrated, Sherlock JW_

_I was not celebrating it, merely pointing it out. - SH_

_Well you point an awful lot of things out JW_

_Obviously John. Now, if you do not mind, I will be ignoring you for a few moments. Covertness is entirely necessary. - SH_

_Fine, well don't wait up if you come back to 221B tonight, I'm going to bed JW_

_Naturally. I shall hopefully see you later. - SH_

_I wouldn't count on it, I'm not at all happy with you Sherlock JW_

_The experiment I assume? - SH_

_No, being taken for granted CONSTANTLY JW_

_I do not take you for granted. - SH_

_Well it seems like it - JW_

_I apologise if that is what you perceive. Now, stop texting me. - SH_

_Why should I stop texting you? JW_

_Because I am attempting to be covert, If they realise I am not who I am pretending to be, I will be killed. I know you are angry with me, but I believe my corpse would be somewhat of an inconvenience for you to have to deal with. - SH_

_Well I'm sorry for trying to resolve some of our issues, I'll see you later JW_

_[No reply]_

John placed his phone onto his bedside cabinet and pulled his jumper over his head before discarding it on the floor. The orange light from the streetlights outside spilled through the curtains as he slipped between the sheets of his freezing cold bed and turned onto his shoulder with his eyes screwed up tight.

Several hours later, Sherlock found himself limping back towards 221 Baker Street. Admittedly, his guise had gone well enough; perhaps a little too well after one of the criminals had attempted to sexually assault him. He had escaped with a few bruises along his ribs, arms, and jaw where sharp fingers had gripped him, and he had successfully twisted his ankle. Entering 221, he dragged himself wearily up the stairs into their apartment, limping towards the sofa.

John heard the door open and dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs to the living room, "Sherlock?"

Lowering himself tenderly against the cushions, Sherlock winced slightly before reclining back. "Yes, John?" he managed wearily, readying himself for being shouted at; he was still on John's bad side.

"Jesus, are you okay?" John felt his heart leap out of his chest as he noticed Sherlock's rumpled and bruised state. He'd seen people come into the surgery like that before, teenage girls with their make up smeared and clothes ripped, young kids, rape victims.

The detective waved a dismissive hand, closing his eyes tiredly as he remained laid against the cushions. "Perfectly fine. I merely misjudged my target's attraction towards me."

"Sherlock, did he," John felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, "you know, touch you anywhere?"

"Numerous places," Sherlock replied tiredly, resting his bruised hands atop his slim stomach. "But no, he did not succeed in raping me, if that is what you were intending to ask."

"I should really give you an examination, I want to make sure that you haven't contracted anything, if that's okay," John asked, his cheeks were burning and he thanked the flat's eclectic decor and heavy curtains for the darkness.

Sherlock shook his head pointedly. "I am alright. I merely wish to sleep. Go back upstairs and ignore me as you were planning on doing anyway."

"No," the strength in his voice surprised him, "Sherlock, I'm a doctor, it's what I do- take off your shirt, I can see you bleeding through it," Sherlock's ripped and bloodied shirt had left a dark stain on the couch and he was covered in bruises, John curled his hands into fists, how could someone do that to someone else?

Ignoring John, Sherlock turned slowly onto his side, wincing until he faced away from the blonde. His cheek was resting heavily against the cushions as he kept his eyes closed.

John took two long strides and stood over Sherlock, "get up before I make you," John's voice was commanding and deep, "now,"

"You are becoming irritating," Sherlock murmured lowly, ignoring the commanding tone behind him, a former soldier indeed. "Leave me alone."

"No, Sherlock, you are becoming irritating," John growled, "you are quite obviously in pain and I don't want to see you hurt," his voice cracked slightly, "please?" the detective opened his eyes slowly, before exhaling in annoyance. Slowly, he turned, grimacing as he attempted to push himself upright.

John smirked slightly at his victory but it was without depth or emotion. His expression fell into a grimace as he helped Sherlock slip off his shirt and surveyed the damage to his friend's abdomen. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the shirt slipped over his badly bruised and mottled skin. He stared straight-ahead, flinching as John's fingers brushed over the injuries.

"Jesus," John mumbled through his slightly parted lips as he took in Sherlock's body. He reached down to his side for his first aid kit. The detective cricked his neck slightly to one side, before glancing towards the ceiling, merely listening to John as he retrieved his medical supplies.

John gently smoothed a yellow cream across Sherlock's chest and unraveled a length of bandage that he set against Sherlock's thin chest. Sherlock twitched at the touch of John's cold fingers, disliking such physical contact. As John began to wrap the bandage around him, he jerked slightly, pulling back.

"Hey, hey shush," John mumbled sleepily but made his touch gentler. He took a large adhesive bandage and pressed it to the area just above Sherlock's belly button. He could feel Sherlock shivering from the cold slightly. He looked towards Sherlock's shirt, which was stained with blood. He pulled his own jumper over his head and handed it to Sherlock; "put this on, can I inspect your legs?"

Sherlock glanced towards the woolly jumper and accepted it slowly. Tugging it on slowly over his head, relishing at the warmth residing from John's body, he nodded weakly, It was peculiar; he had not particularly been affected by what had happened until now. Perhaps, and the thought was ironic, he was in shock. John noticed Sherlock's expression, "do you need a shock blanket?" he smirked before returning to an expression of seriousness and gently undid Sherlock's belt and zip, "okay, shush, I'm not going to hurt you Sherl, I just need to make sure you're okay," John whispered, he realised that he was treating him like a child but just wanted to make sure that he was okay. The detective barely even reacted to the question, shivering slightly as John began to tug his trousers down. He was fine for a moment before John's fingers curled over the waistband of them. Memories of lecherous hands pinning him, sliding to his lower body, trying to claim him flashed through his mind and he kicked out violently, ignoring the agony in his sprained ankle.

John felt pain rip through his scarred shoulder as Sherlock's shoe kicked him hard. He collapsed back onto his knees and gasped in agony.

Sherlock had, surprisingly for him, lost control and coherency. The pain was nothing as he leapt from the sofa, limping violently out of the door and towards the stairs. John jumped up after him, ignoring the pain across his bare chest where Sherlock's shoes had ripped the scar tissue on his shoulder, "Sherlock, wait right there!" he yelled, not caring about waking Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock disappeared out of the front door and into the snowy street. The detective stumbled slightly as he flew out into the thankfully empty street. It was late, and the snow had prevented many vehicles from passing. Ignoring the fact that he had stolen John's jumper, he turned and ran awkwardly, blood dripping behind him from his numerous wounds as he attempted to flee; all reasoning lost in shock, confusion, and panic.

John raced after him, his shoulder dripping floods of scarlet into the snow, he was so very cold but he didn't care as he broke into a run, tears clouding his vision. Sherlock winced as his ankle gave out beneath him and he crashed to his knees. Shaking violently, he struggled back to his feet, panting as he tried to continue onwards.

John finally caught up with him and skidded a stop behind the detective. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's damaged chest; he ignored the pain that burned through his shoulder as he pulled the detective to his feet.

Sherlock, surprisingly, screamed at the touch, fighting furiously against the unseen attacker behind him; pain flaring beneath the hold as he fought for freedom, "Sherlock, calm down, it's me, it's me John," John soothed as he stilled Sherlock's writhing form with the force of his arms around the taller man's waist, gently he span the detective around. By now, John's wound was bleeding across the two of them and leaving a mass of red snow.

Sherlock shivered violently, memories flicking back that he could not remember. Had he... had he deleted what had happened? If that was the case, then what had happened?

John started to cry at the scared and innocent expression on Sherlock's face. He pulled him close to his chest and winced at the pain that ripped through his shoulder. Sherlock's hair was full of perfect white snowflakes and John's jumper was soaked with snow and blood. They must have looked so silly, in a street in London, two days before Christmas, well after midnight, one in his boxers, the other topless, covered in blood and snow.

The detective had trouble controlling his breathing as his chin rested atop John's uninjured shoulder, snow beginning to blanket their shivering bodies. He stared straight ahead, eyes glazed and unseeing as he descended into shock, barely even aware of John's comforting presence.

"Sherlock, is your ankle okay to walk inside? My shoulder isn't up to carrying you," John asked quietly as he pressed his ice-cold cheek against the top of Sherlock's chest, burying his tear-streaked face into the warmth of his own jumper.

Sherlock said nothing, staring absently down the street, lips parting slightly as the snowflakes nestled in his dark hair. His mind had essentially overloaded with painful emotions - something that his clinical brain was not accustomed to - and had shut down in an attempt to restore the mainframe, so to speak.

"Sherlock please, please talk to me," John begged as he tugged on Sherlock's frail waist in an attempt to move him back towards 221. The dark-haired detective absently felt the tug and his legs trembled beneath him. Slowly, as though on autopilot, he rose to his feet, limping as John guided him back.

They walked together, John biting his lip to stop from crying out in pain at Sherlock's added weight on his injured shoulder. Somehow they made it to the doorway of their apartment and John looked up at the numb detective, his eyes were blank and expressionless.

Sherlock said nothing as they reached 221 Baker Street, heading into the hallway before the stairs that lead to their apartment. Without a word, his badly swollen ankle gave way again and he allowed himself to slump down towards the floor. John ignored his own pain and wrapped both arms around Sherlock's waist as he pulled him into the air. He refused to break eye contact as he carried Sherlock through the apartment and towards his bedroom. Tensing slightly at the painful touch, Sherlock otherwise remained entirely pliant as John carried him upstairs. His head lolled slightly, exemplifying his utterly absent state, before he was deposited on the bed. He stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling, his normally expressive eyes glazed over upon shutting down.

John tugged the duvet back and shoved Sherlock's limp body under the sheets. He picked up his hot water bottle from the floor and headed downstairs to fill the kettle and to grab some bandages for his shoulder. He wouldn't let Sherlock be alone tonight.

Sherlock's head tilted upon being moved, his body limp beneath the covers as he stared slightly to his left, away from the door. The ache of his wounds was like background noise; when his brain eventually rebooted, they would undoubtedly cause enough pain.

When John returned some minutes later Sherlock was frozen under the sheets, staring at the ceiling. Ordinarily he would be a bit pissed about Sherlock damaging his shoulder so much but Sherlock just looked so defenceless that he felt only sadness.

Vaguely, the instinctive part of Sherlock's mind was aware of John's return, but he offered no reaction. He did not even blink; only his breathing remained regulated.

John pressed the hot water bottle to Sherlock's chest and pulled the duvet back so that he could climb in. His shoulder was thickly bandaged and excruciatingly painful. He allowed his head to flop back onto the pillow as he turned off the bedside lamp and sneaked a look at Sherlock. Sherlock's head lolled uselessly as John shifted into place next to him, his eyes still locked sightlessly on a dark area of the ceiling, showing no signs of closing to retrieve sleep.

"Sherlock?" John whispered into the blackness. There was no reply. The word seemed to drift into the dark void between them, affording no response.

John decided to play a game he'd often played a child. If he could count to ten before someone broke the silence he'd say exactly what was on his mind- _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9... 10._

"I love you,"

It was unfortunate that the words Sherlock Holmes had always required to hear from someone - even if had never truly understood their meaning - was offered at a time when he could not hear it. Had his mind been aware, he would have responded with something similar.

John felt hot tears filter through his eyelashes and trickle down his cheeks, "please?"

Still nothing. Beneath the covers, the signs of Sherlock's assault became abundantly clear following his rabid attempts at escape. Blood had seeped through his boxers, trickling down his thighs and staining the sheets. Clearly, he had not deleted the event from his mind well enough.

John noticed, just as he always did when it was to do with his precious detective. He gently pushed the duvet back and kneeled over Sherlock, "please let me help you Sherl?"

Offering no response, Sherlock's head lolled away from John to the side. John stepped out of bed and gently pulled his underwear drawer out. He picked a plain pair of navy boxers and some antiseptic wipes from his desk. He returned to the bed and pulled down Sherlock's underwear, trying to not think about how highly inappropriate and compromising their position was. He got to work, being as careful as possible to try and erase the abuse from earlier that night.

Sherlock, thankfully, did not choose then to rouse as John worked, attempting to fix what had been broken. Still staring to one side, a single tear slid from the corner of his eye to carve a track over the bridge of his nose before trickling over the opposite cheekbone.

John could feel his own hot tears slipping down his cheeks as he pulled his own boxers onto Sherlock's motionless frame. The detective's slim and violently bruised legs - normally pale and alabaster pure - were lifted as John slid the boxers on before he was laid to rest once more.

John collapsed onto the bed next to him, sobbing fully now at the night's events.

**:** Time ticked on steadily as John sobbed, before Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered slightly. He blinked wearily, glazed eyes focusing slightly as his mind rebooted, kick-starting his brain back into awareness.

John whimpered in pain as a burning sensation raked across his damaged shoulder and he buried his face in his pillow to stop himself from rousing Sherlock. Hearing the whimper, Sherlock's brow furrowed slowly, gaze sliding towards the blonde laid next to him. "John?" he managed weakly, studying the heavily bandaged shoulder for a moment.

John's puffy eyes snapped open and he rolled over to face Sherlock, "yeah?"

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, pale face tilted towards John slightly. "What happened to your shoulder?"

John tried not to look stricken; Sherlock obviously had no memory of the past few hours and John hoped that his lie wouldn't be obvious; "I fell,"

Sherlock's brow furrowed softly and he made to push himself upright, immediately wincing and collapsing back again. "I assume a case did not go well?" he managed dryly, blinking towards the ceiling.

"No, not particularly," he hesitated, unsure, "do you remember anything from the past couple of hours?"

The detective paused, before quirking an eyebrow. "No, should I?" he replied tiredly, glancing towards John. "Did I hit my head? If so, I assume you treated me here and remained with me to check for concussion. Am I correct?"

John stared down at the sheets, he didn't want to lie to Sherlock but he didn't want to have to inform him of what had happened. Brow furrowing softly, Sherlock tilted his head fully to one side, appraising John carefully. "Something bad happened, judging on your inability to meet my gaze and the apparent severity of both of our injuries."

"Sherlock..." John trailed off; his voice was low and teary.

Eyes widening in surprise at the tears in John's eyes, he shifted agonisingly onto his side, resting a comforting hand on John's uninjured shoulder. "John, what is it?"

John let out a low sob, "you were on a case, we had a bit of an argument over text and then you stopped texting because you needed to be covert," John gulped.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly; dark curls falling over his stark-white face. "So you were not with me, correct?"

"No, then when you came back you were injured, you were bleeding and you told me that-" tears welled up in his eyes again and he struggled to speak.

"I told you that what?" the detective asked softly, yet his eyes were narrowed sharply and with a hint of confusion.

"That the guy abused you, sexually, that he tried to rape you,"

The words hung in the air between them as John began to cry even more. Sherlock stared in utter shock, not really registering the words. He could not remember this occurring. As John cried, he squeezed his shoulder softly. "It is alright, John."

John shook his head and wiped away the tears, "so I tried to check you out for damage and you wouldn't let me, at first," John sniffed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes, "so I bandaged you up and then you were cold so I gave you my jumper,"

"You then allowed me to check your lower body-" John stopped and stared at his lap.

The detective paused, tilting his head to one side as he scanned over John's expression. "I assume I had an unfavourable reaction?"

John nodded, "you went berserk and attacked me," John wrung his hands together, gauging the detective's reaction.

Sherlock stared for a moment, before the dots began to connect and his eyes widened slightly. "I damaged your shoulder."

"Yeah," John blinked away the tears.

"I am sorry," he replied genuinely, more grieved by having hurt his friend than by what had happened to him. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"I don't think so," John sighed before continuing, "you ran away, you were completely unresponsive and kept having flashbacks, when we were outside and I found you, you obviously had a flashback that I was your attacker-" Sherlock glanced up at John's black eye and the cut on the bridge of his nose.

The detective swallowed slowly, before tilting his head away. "John, please understand that I did not intend to hurt you. I would never knowingly do such a thing."

"I know Sherlock, I know," John swallowed. "I got you inside and into bed but then you started to bleed from the earlier abuse, that's why you are wearing my boxers." John desperately hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice that he had left out the part when John confessed his love.

Sherlock paused, taking in everything before he nodded. "Perhaps we should take you to a doctor for your shoulder. It is an old war wound and probably requires medical attention." He shifted, levering his thin legs over the edge of the bed and attempting to rise to his feet, still wearing just John's jumper and a pair of boxers.

John sighed a breath of relief, he flopped back onto the pillows, "where are you going?"

"To call for assistance. Your wound is bleeding. I do not wish for it to become infected." He began limping around the bed and towards the door. John settled between the pillows.

"Who are you contacting? Surely it would be easier to get a cab to the hospital?"

"Lestrade, perhaps Mycroft if the former does not answer," Sherlock replied tiredly, reaching the door. "I am certain that either of them would take you willingly."

"Sherlock, you can't just wake Lestrade up in the middle of the night, I can get there myself,"

"Then my brother perhaps," the detective commented lightly, limping out of the room and towards the living room, ignoring the trails of blood from earlier that had clearly marked their progression. John sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly; it had been a long night. He stood up and followed Sherlock out of the room.

Dragging himself into the room, Sherlock retrieved his phone from the side table and fired off a swift text to his brother:

_John hurt. Send car to take him to hospital. – SH_

John followed Sherlock into the room until he was standing by his shoulder, "I didn't tell you everything that happened," John whispered.

Hm? And what was that?" the detective replied, disregarding his own trauma; it was somewhat easier when it did not seem to be related to him.

"I said earlier, when you were still pretty out of it, that I loved you,"

Sherlock paused, reading the message from Mycroft:

_Serious? Car on its way. - MH_

"Oh? Was it sincere or out of concern?"

"I love you," John repeated for gently stepping up onto his tiptoes and kissing the side of Sherlock's mouth. The detective blinked softly, phone held in his bruised hand before he glanced towards John. He paused, before his brow furrowed. "You are serious."

"Deadly," John replied, his heart hammering in his chest.

Sherlock stared for a moment, before his phone vibrated in his hand and he glanced at the new message. "Mycroft says that the car is waiting outside. You should go."

John nodded as he picked up the t-shirt and jeans that he'd brought downstairs and slipped them on quickly. He grabbed his keys and turned to go downstairs, "aren't you coming?"

The detective shook his head, limping towards the window and studying the black car below. "No. Mycroft will ensure that you receive the required treatment."

John felt his heart sink slightly, "Oh, okay, I'll see you later," John raced down the stairs, trying to stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks as he arrived outside a large and sleek black car. He turned and looked up at the illuminated window and the taller man's silhouette, wishing that Sherlock would come with him for some moral support.

Sherlock listened to him leave, before catching sight of John glancing up at him. He bowed his head and turned away, heading to take a shower in an attempt to rid his body of the evidence of the night's events. He did not wish to go to the hospital, because he would be checked over and he did not wish to reawaken any potential memories; he had instinctively deleted them for a reason.

John opened the car door with his good arm and stooped to climb inside. For once, neither Anthea nor Mycroft were present. He thanked his lucky stars as he slipped down onto the cool leather of the seat and finally began to cry.

After washing, determinedly not studying the wounds too closely and trying to ignore the pink stain of water that indicated the washing away of blood, Sherlock finally finished. Toweling himself dry, he slipped into his old pyjamas before, on instinct, heading to John's room rather than his own. For some reason, he wished for the comfort of John near him when the doctor returned. Dragging himself upstairs, he instantly curled up on John's bed, before fading into an exhausted sleep.

When he returned to 221B several hours later the entire flat was silent, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, removing his jeans as he did so. When he arrived at the door of his bedroom he noticed the sleeping figure curled on the right hand side of the bed. John removed his sling and pulled off his t-shirt before slipping between the sheets and finally going to sleep.

When John awoke the next morning the first thing that he noticed was the warm weight on his chest and the hair tickling his chin. John looked down at Sherlock, whose eyes were puffy from crying and whose hair was still slightly damp. John wrapped his good arm around Sherlock's waist and curled around him.

The detective awoke hazily as a warm weight rested around him, holding him close. He kept his eyes closed however, merely snuggling closer into the warmth. He had discovered last night that John was his comfort blanket.

John looked down at the sleepy detective and without thinking pressed a kiss to his forehead. He immediately blushed a bright red and shrunk away.

At the kiss, Sherlock's eyelids peeled back and he blinked up at John tiredly. "How is your shoulder?" he asked softly, showing no signs of discomfort at the kiss.

"Sore," John mumbled honestly before ducking his head and catching Sherlock's lips in a soft kiss.

Sherlock stared in surprise, before closing his eyes softly and responding to the kiss tentatively.

John raised his good arm to brush the hair out of `Sherlock's eyes before opening his mouth ever so slightly.

The detective moved his mouth slowly against John's, slowly and utterly cautiously with each movement. John pressed one hand against Sherlock's chest, stopping him.

"This is enough for now, trust me," John mumbled through his slightly swollen lips, "I love you."

Sherlock looked down at John's hand on his chest, John's small, short-fingered, calloused hand that felt so _right _against his body and smiled weakly, "I love you too John Watson,"


End file.
